


Old Friend, New Love

by gandalfthesassy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Bandmate, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Multi, Music, Part of this is pre-john deacon, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Supporting Lesbian Character, Swearing, drunk, musician reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gandalfthesassy/pseuds/gandalfthesassy
Summary: It's 1970, and your band's playing their biggest gig ever at a small pub in England. This is your chance to be seen, maybe even to make it big. You just weren't expecting to reconnect with an old school friend (and crush) along the way.(y/n) stands for the reader's name or nickname, and the fic uses gender-neutral pronouns (they/them). Rated T for drunkenness, swearing, innuendos, and a lot of pining and sensuality (not sexual, you just wanna hold someone, honestly).





	1. The Setup

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He'll save every one of us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461585) by [Adrenaline_Roulette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenaline_Roulette/pseuds/Adrenaline_Roulette). 



> I wrote this with Gwilym Lee's portrayal of Brian in mind, but you're free to imagine actual 1970 Brian May instead.
> 
> also i'm really gay so that's why there's a couple of gays in here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reconnect with an old friend.

You nearly throw your back out by pulling your bass guitar case from its spot in the back of your tiny van. Thankfully, your back only hurts for a moment while you straighten up, and the feeling passes as you exhale in relief.

“How’d you fit all that in there?!” you hear your drummer shout across the alleyway. You look to where she’s speed-walking up to you and shrug grandly.

“I’m stubborn as fuck,” is the only explanation you give. She laughs at this and starts unloading some extra parts of her drum set. The two of you have been practicing at your place, so you offered to bring her kit piece by piece. Thanks to your aforementioned stubbornness, you’ve managed to get the transportation of her drums down to two trips. This past trip was the second.

Some of the kit’s been set up already, in preparation for the main band—you’ve forgotten the name, you probably should know it, but you’ll be five shots deep by the time they announce it anyway. You haul your bass and a bag full of cables into the pub after your drummer, wondering what’s taking your other bandmate so long.

On your way in, the few people already in the bar glance at the door with interest. Immediately feeling awkward without the buffer of your guitarist, you shoot them a grin. They all go back to drinking or talking. Two of them resume making out, a curly-haired brunette woman in the lap of a blonde, and you’re not quite sure if the blonde person’s a man or woman. You don’t care, honestly, good for them, but you hope if they’re both female that no one insults them (or comes after them).

“Steeeellaaaa!” someone does their best Marlon Brando from the bar as you two climb up onto the small stage. She lets out the most disgusted sound she’s ever made.

“She’s never heard _that_ one before,” you call back, your voice thick with sarcasm. A few other patrons laugh in sympathy. Stella claims she's used to it, but part of you wishes that slamming that dumbass headfirst into the bar wouldn’t get you kicked out. People do kind of know your band around here, but not well, only enough to either think your band sucks or crack jokes about your names. You wonder if this would ever go away.

As you help Stella set up, you start to feel a familiar pit in your stomach. You swallow down your nerves, partly about being onstage and largely unprotected, and partly for your guitarist's chronic lateness. You glance around the bar again, wondering if you missed him.

For a few moments you lock eyes with a man you recognize, a tall, lanky astronomy student from one of your classes this semester, though you can’t remember which. You _do_ remember his name is Brian M. You can’t remember his last name, but in a previous class, you worked on a group project with him. You’d seen him around before getting paired up, but you two hit it off and became friends for a short while. You _really_ should’ve called the guy afterward and asked him on a date. But he’s here now, dressed to the nines and looking back with those intense eyes of his. He gives you a shy smile and holds up a hand in acknowledgement. You nod, it’s all you can think to do that doesn’t involve winking. Or melting into the floor. _Good LORD, he’s cute._

The nerves well back up, and you pretend to busy yourself with one of the drum accessories. You didn’t realize you had to perform tonight for attractive people, much less _sober_ people, who’d be more judgmental. _Fuck._

Stella gives you a sympathetic pat, and you turn back to her. “He’ll be here,” she reassures you, but you both know deep down there’s a 30% chance she’ll be wrong.

Almost on cue, the door bangs open and in he strides, guitar in one hand, beer bottle in the other, and a cable wrapped around one shoulder. “Heard there was a party in here,” he yells to the entire pub, his words muddling together. “And we’re bringing the fuckin’ _heat_!”

Your stomach twists. “Shit,” you mutter. Of all the last-minute screw-ups—

“Curt, are you gonna help or not?” Stella, quicker on the draw, speaks up. He turns to her and stumbles.

“Oh yeah!” he laughs. “We have a show to do.”

“Yes, we have a show, _you’re_ the lead guitarist,” you remind him as he walks over, restraining yourself from blowing up in his face. The fact that others can see you makes your face burn. “And you don’t have a backup, because the last time I suggested we find someone, you lost your shit.”

“Yeah I know, (y/n),” he sticks out a tongue, “get that stick outta your ass and _relax_.”

“Don’t,” you warn him. “I don't want to hear it right now. Let’s just play the show,” you step towards him and lower your voice, “and if you fuck up or puke on stage, we’re going to talk about your future with the band.”

Curt glances at Stella for confirmation. She nods once.

“Pssh, okay, boss,” he snorts and climbs (well, _falls_ ) onto the stage with his beat-up black guitar. You swallow your nerves again, hoping they stay down this time.

When you finish setting up your bass, and Stella gets all her extra shit in place, you lean over her kit, the same worried look on your face.

“Hey, relax, man,” she urges you. “He’s played like this before. We’ll be fine.”

“This is our chance to get _seen_ ,” you speak back, over the growing noise of the bar. “I heard there might be an agent or two in the audience, they’ll be looking for talent. I don’t want Curt fuckin’ Gage to mess that up for us. He’s the reason people think we suck.”

“If he fucks up tonight, we’ll find a new guitarist,” she lays a hand on your arm and looks right in your eyes.

“I’ll push him offstage if I have to,” you vow.

“Hopefully you won’t. Now come on, we’re all set up and ready, let’s vanish for a bit.” You nod and take off your bass, setting it against the drums, and you follow Stella to the door. Curt doesn’t notice, chatting up the young brunette you saw earlier. _Too bad for blondie_ , you find yourself thinking.

~

When you’re halfway to the van, someone comes up behind you. A gentle hand taps your shoulder. “Excuse me?”

You turn around, trying to be as neutral as possible, but wanting to strangle whoever’s about to ruin your pre-show routine with Stella: “Yes?”

Your annoyance evaporates when you register who’s there.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you remember me?” he asks hopefully, his head and shoulders partly framed by the soft light from the bar. Of _course_ you remember this attractive bastard. You’re about ready to kiss him. “I think I know you from one of my classes.”

“Yeah, of course! Brian, right?” He nods. “We did that project on Jupiter’s moons together.” Quickly, you add: “I don’t think I ever found out your last name.”

“It’s May,” he responds.

“No, I think it’s September,” you can’t help but fire back. He looks confused, and Stella cackles from inside the back of your van. You forgot she was there. You’ve got to keep this short. “Sorry, that was terrible.”

He laughs lightly. “Oh no, I get it, just took me a second.”

“Oh good!” you laugh back, and you know your face is pink with twenty different emotions. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we have this routine before we play…”

“Oh okay,” he says, glancing at Stella, who waves. “Uh, I just wanted to say ‘good luck,’ and I hope you stick around afterwards to hear us play.”

“Wait, you’re in—”

“In the other band, yeah. We’re called Smile, though there’s been talks of changing it to Queen.”

“That’s a wonderful name. I mean, obviously you might get attached to a band name like Smile, but Queen is regal, and easier to say. And memorable.”

“Finally, someone with _taste_!” cries someone from behind Brian. He turns around, partially revealing a slightly darker-skinned man with about the same haircut as Brian and a bit of an overbite (thank god you’re not the only one). “I told you, Brian darling, it’s a much better name. Better for a screaming queen like myself, anyway.”

“Hey, a fellow queen!” calls Stella from inside the band. “That makes two of us. If anyone breathes a bad word in your direction, (y/n) will destroy them. Just give them a shout.”

“No need to get your hands dirty on account of me, dears,” the man dismisses with a wave of his hand, “it’s no big deal. If they’re prejudiced, that’s their problem, not mine.”

“Uh, (y/n), this is Freddie,” Brian coughs and cuts in, a little embarrassed. You give Freddie a friendly smile and hold out your hand, which he takes and kisses in one swift move. “Our lead singer.”

“(y/n),” Freddie repeats, and you notice his two front teeth stick out, you imagine they give his voice some of its uniqueness. “Lovely name. Do you play?”

“Yeah,” your voice returns as he releases your hand. Brian looks down at his own hands. “Of course, yeah, I play bass in the band. I can also play guitar, though I get nervous playing it in front of people. I wrote most of our songs, actually, and I sing too. I’m suddenly forgetting everything,” you ramble, trying to focus on a point on Freddie’s forehead to alleviate your nerves, but in your periphery you can sense Brian watching you with interest. “People think we’re terrible, though, so I don’t exactly advertise that I play. It’s not respectable.”

“Oh, who cares about respectable,” Freddie scoffs. “If you can play, you can play. Anyway, your group’s called The Grooves, is that right?”

“How’d you find that out?” Stella asks.

“We heard you play a gig last week,” Brian jumps in. “I quite enjoyed it, don’t see why people think you’re rubbish.”

“It’s that _guitarist_ of theirs,” declares Freddie. “He’s an obnoxious twat, judging by both his performance style _and_ the way he came in just now. He’s a nuisance.”

“This coming from the man who broke a mic stand during his first gig…” You grin as the accused rolls his eyes.

“That was an accident. I wouldn’t be surprised if _he_ did it on purpose. At least the two of you are talented enough to make up for him.”

“Thank you? I think?” you nod your head in thanks. “That means a lot.”

“Yeah, that solo you had in the first song you played,” Brian agrees, his eyes lighting up, “I’ve never been floored by anyone playing bass before.”

“Not even Paul McCartney?” your eyebrows perk up.

“You’d probably out-play him,” he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“God, you think so? I feel like I’d pass out from just being in his presence before I played a note,” you laugh a little, and Brian laughs back, eyes crinkling at the corners. If it were up to you, you would just jumped into his arms right here, but duty calls.

“Okay, we’ve got two minutes til showtime,” Stella gets out of the van. “I need to borrow you for a minute, (y/n). Good talking to you two, and we’ll definitely stick around to hear you play. Good luck.”

“Good luck, darlings!” Freddie blows you a kiss and waves, leaving with Brian right behind him. You wave back as Stella bids them goodbye. Brian glances over his shoulder one more time before he goes inside and you smile at him. He rubs the back of his neck, saying something you can’t hear to Freddie as they head in.

“I can see why you like him.”

“Which one?” you wonder.

“The tall one,” Stella gives you the smuggest grin you’ve ever seen. “You know. ‘Brian from Intro to Physics.’ I remember him too. He came ‘round to study once when I was over, and it was after you’d already turned in your project. What did you two get up to?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“If you’re trying to insinuate something, you’re wrong,” you tell her, heading for the door. She follows, face unchanging. “Oh, knock it off! He’s cute, but he’s smarter than me. And he’s in a semi-successful band. He’s already probably got a sweetheart.”

“How well do you know him?” Stella blocks your path.

“I don’t know all his secrets, but we know each other’s studying habits, I guess. I know how he feels about music, though I didn’t know he played in a band until now, much less in Smile. That makes so much sense though, not only does he know his shit, he can _prove_ it.”

“A good start,” she nods in approval. “I saw the way you two looked at each other. I’m no scientist but I know chemistry when I see it. Maybe tonight you need to, shall we say, _reconnect_.” Stella ends with a wink.

“Uh, sure,” you say with zero confidence and push past her. She lets you. “Let’s just get through this show, alright? And hope Curt hasn’t passed out.”

Upon walking in, you’re relieved to see Curt by his amp, a cup of water in one hand. “Where _were_ you two?” he yells over the chatter. As if he had the right to judge _you_ being late.

“Networking,” Stella abbreviates. You don’t add anything, just get up and sling your strap over your shoulders. With any luck, the concert will flash by, and you’ll rush offstage to get hammered.

But if your old friend’s band is as good as you suspect, maybe this time, you won't.


	2. The Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After your respective bands play their sets, Queen extends an offer to you.

The audience takes a few songs to warm up to you, but when they do, some of them come closer to the stage. You spot a few regulars, some drunk already and a few who aren’t. The latter few are people you know; they do actually like your music.

Stella slams down on her snare four times and rolls into the next song. You join in with the bass riff, looking back at her in pure joy, and she responds in kind—you can tell she’s laughing, even though the instruments drown her out. You look over at Curt, and even through his glassy eyes, you can see the same thrill of the moment. He plays along with you, a little behind, so you mouth ‘slower’ to Stella and the two of you get in step with him before anyone notices. Some of the crowd claps along as you start singing. This is _your song_ , one of the first ones you ever wrote, and the lyrics are still a work in progress. But this time, you haven’t touched a single word. Your toes tap along as the first two verses and chorus wrap up and you play underneath Curt. He manages to cobble together a solo, you’re a little surprised, but you make a mental note to include his lackluster attempt as a reason why he can’t drink before a show.

After he finishes, he looks back up and stumbles a little. His hands slip away from his instrument, darting forward to grab the mic to balance himself. When he does, you jack up your volume and try a little something, knowing you’ve never done a break like this, not in this song. It ruins the rhythm of it. But Curt’s not playing. Someone’s got to.

You start out predictably, just repeating the verse riff, but then you throw in a few scales in the right key, making you sound more competent than you are. You glance up for the briefest of seconds to see the crowd bobbing their heads in time. As you keep playing, spurred on by their rapt attention, Stella accompanies you and throws in a fill when she hears you repeat a phrase. This goes on for nearly a full minute but you don’t know this, wholly wrapped up in covering for your bandmate’s state. You finish your solo when Curt shakes it off and comes back in, cutting you off, but you’re not even mad. Stella adds in one last fill and a small group from the center of the crowd shouts out encouragement, including one, “Well _done_ , darling!” You laugh as you all get back on track, your confidence through the stratosphere. No one will hear about this concert but it doesn’t matter. The main band thinks you rocked it.

By the end of the set, which is a mere two songs later, you’re so happy you think you might cry. You can’t remember a gig that went this well. And no one heckled you! When the crowd cheers and claps, Stella jumps up and takes a bow, you and Curt follow suit, though he stands straight much more slowly. You say into the mic, emboldened by the response, “Thank you ladies and gentlemen! We are the Grooves, and we hope you grooved too.” It’s cheesy but you keep talking, your nerves coming back. “Next up is Queen, I believe, unless they’re still Smile, who knows, but thank you for being so generous with your praise! Make sure you give the other group just as much, if not more,” you hold up a hand in thanks and all three of you climb offstage, Stella grabbing the extra parts from her kit. Curt breaks off for the bar. You’re not driving him home, he can walk. If he can’t, too bad.

You make it out into the cool night air and wrap up your cable. Behind you, you can hear an effeminate voice say, “Can you leave those on? We need a tambourine and Fred forgot his.”

“Oh sure,” Stella obliges. “Just don’t break anything, or you’ll owe me.”

“Money? Or a _favor_?” the person clarifies, a naughty tone underlining the last word. You turn around, curious, and it’s the blonde from the bar earlier. Judging by Stella’s snicker of disinterest, it’s a man.

“I meant money, mate,” she tells him and heads out to join you.

“Roger!” yells someone from inside impatiently. Either Brian or Freddie, you guess.

“Aren’t you going to stay and listen?” Stella touches your arm gently as you put your bass in its case.

“Of course, just putting this away,” you finish packing and place it delicately in the back. “Who’s blondie?”

She shrugs. “A man who’s never heard of a lesbian.”

“That’s not very specific,” you close the van door and lock it, heading back inside. “Could be anyone.”

“Well, that’s how I’ll remember him. Oh, hey, you thirsty?”

“In actuality, yes,” you speak over the murmur of the crowd and the band warming up, “for alcohol, no!”

“That’s a first,” Stella blinks as you two grab a table near the front, beating out a couple who were rushing over. “You want me to get you a glass?”

“Of water, yeah sure,” you reply absently as Smile/Queen finishes setting up. You feel her pat your arm once and take off. Before anyone can steal it, you lift your feet onto her empty chair. You twist your body weirdly to face the stage again as the band announces themselves.

They’re Queen, alright, and Freddie’s just as lively onstage as he was off. The audience starts off with half interest; it’s better than when _you_ started, at least. (You like to think that’s your band’s doing, but you know how much people around here like them.) You can’t help but watch Brian. He’s good, _really_ good, and he practically tears up his guitar as he plays, all with the calmest of expressions. _How the hell does he do that?_  you wonder in awe. When _you_ play, you always have to get into the groove, you can’t help but dance to the rhythm. Even with his apparent stillness, you can see he’s enjoying himself, as are the other three. You don’t recognize their bassist, and he seems to be a little off versus the others. You suspect he might be new.

You believe throughout most of it that the band can’t see you, not with those lights on them. But between two songs, Brian’s eyes scan the crowd, and when they land on you, he grins and winks. Behind him, Roger rolls his eyes and leans forward, saying something to Brian you can’t quite hear. You wave back. The flirt at the kit thinks you’re waving at him, so he returns the gesture. At this, Brian nearly hits him, but Roger laughs and digresses.

All too soon, their set’s over, and Freddie announces: “Alright, thank you, darlings. You’ve been a very gracious audience this evening, and for that we love you. We’ll be back here in a few weeks to play again, but until then, goodnight to you all!” He sweeps an arm out grandly and tilts his head back. You can’t help but smile. (Maybe they should’ve kept the old name after all.) The crowd gives them a raucous round of applause as they disappear offstage with their instruments.

You notice as the crowd winds down that Stella’s not back. Thankfully, you’re not worried. She’s not exactly Curt levels of irresponsible. Still, she _did_ promise to bring you water and she hasn’t. _That’s_ weird. So weird, in fact, that you resist the urge to wait at the table for her and instead go poke around.

It doesn’t take you long to find her right outside, chatting up the brunette girl you saw earlier. Stella’s got one hip against the wall, attitude in full-on cool mode, charm dialed up to eleven. The other girl’s listening to her very intently. You decide against interrupting them, but as you’re about to head back in, Stella spots you, and you quickly mouth ‘good luck’ and wave at her. She winks back and grins, mentioning you briefly to the girl. (If they hit it off, you’ll probably find out what her name is, but you’re switching gears.)

You head out to where your van’s parked, and you notice another one has parked right behind it. Thankfully, they left enough room for you to open the back, but you know they don’t have enough room to pull out. From the back of the second van comes boisterous, drunken laughter, from none other than Curt. You heave a sigh and head over, bracing yourself for whatever he says or does in response to seeing you. You admittedly haven’t been that nice to him tonight.

The instant you round the back of their vehicle, you hear Curt shout, “I’m gonna stay out _all night_ tonight!” One look at the others speaks volumes. You clear your throat and they all turn to face you.

“(y/n)!” Brian greets you, walking over and holding an arm out. You step forward and hug him. As you pull back and look up at him, Curt mumbles an “I’m sorry, I gotta go,” and stumbles slowly back inside. You call over your shoulder for him to get his gear together so you can head home. All he does in response is hold a finger to the sky. You accept it. As long as he’s mellow, you can relax.

“Thank _God_ ,” Roger groans. “He wouldn’t shut up about what a great time he’d had. We couldn’t get a word in!”

“Normally that wouldn’t be a _bad_ thing,” notes Brian, “but we couldn’t tell what he was saying half the time. Is that normal for him?”

You exhale and nod. “Lately, yes. He’s been having troubles with his girlfriend, so instead of staying in and working it out, he goes out and drinks. It just so happened to coincide with a somewhat important concert. I mean, I don’t blame him, but…”

“I’d be upset too,” Freddie validates you with a sympathetic grimace, “if I had to put up with him. A little drinking is fine, but when it affects your playing it’s not okay.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him, and Stella agrees, but I know he’s having a tough time. You can’t just will yourself to get over it. He’s got to cope somehow. At least tonight he behaved himself.”

“You _know_ …”

“Fred, don’t,” Brian shoots him a warning glance.

“What is it?” you inquire.

He turns to you and explains himself, “It’s just that we’ve been in need of a bassist for a few weeks. Fred’s been asking around.”

Undeterred by his friend’s interruption, Freddie continues, his affected grandness fading. “You’re really fucking talented, darling, and I’m not saying that just to flatter you. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“Wait, what happened to the guy who played with you just now? Did he vanish?”

“Dave,” Roger names him, “he’s a mate of mine. Tonight was his ‘trial gig,’ as Fred called it. I think we should give him another shot, but I don’t know where he got off to.”

“If he’s not going to stick around after the shows,” Brian folds his arms, “he’s shooting himself in the foot.”

“Freddie, are you serious about wanting me to play with all of you?” you have to ask.

“Absolutely,” he nods. “We think you’d fit right into our lineup. I like you, and I know Brian here likes you too. I’m not sure about Roger though.”

“I like you,” Roger shrugs, but he winks an eye, letting you know he’s being serious.

“Well, Stella and Curt are my friends,” you say quietly, “I’d feel bad about dropping them for the first cute guys who think I’m talented. I mean, no offense, I’m flattered, I’m _humbled_ , really, you all are great, you’re one of the best bands I’ve ever heard, but it’s...complicated.” As you talk, you find yourself looking at Brian over and over, and he looks back. You can’t remember the last time someone (other than Stella, of course) really listened to you. Deep inside, your gut whispers, _Give it a shot_ , but your heart reminds you what you told them, that The Grooves are a family.

“Aw, you think we’re cute?” Roger grins toothily, and Brian sighs softly. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m really sorry. I’d love to join you.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Brian reassures you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve got roots here. It’d be hard to pull those up all at once. That doesn’t change the fact that we loved your playing."

“Brian especially,” Freddie pipes up, a wicked grin on his face when Brian looks at him, to which Freddie throws up his hands in mock surrender.

“What do you mean?” you ask him.

“He’s teasing,” Brian insists, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?” Roger ‘oohs’ and Freddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, piss off, you two. I want to talk to (y/n) for a moment, without you eavesdropping. _Please_.”

“Alright dear,” Roger’s voice becomes sing-songy for a moment, and you follow Brian to the front of your van, out of earshot.

“I know I said this before, but I wanted to just say again, I thought you were _fantastic_ tonight,” he starts. “You’re one of my favorite bassists now.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” you smile. “Hey, do you...no, sorry, never mind,” you stop yourself. “It’s stupid.”

“I doubt it is,” he pushes back gently. You lock eyes with him.

“Okay. Brian, would you like to come over to my place?” For a moment, he seems startled, but you clear your statement up: “Just to talk! We haven’t seen each other in so long, I figure we should catch up. And we can talk more about the gig, and maybe about me joining Queen, if that should happen to come up.”

“I’d love to.”

“Oh! Oh, okay,” you stammer, to which he chuckles a little. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I think you’re great. I’m more than happy to spend more time with you. I’ll just have to let Roger know he might have to pick me up.”

“I can also drop you off at home when you get tired of me,” you offer.

“That’d be a very long time.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” you cover up your desire to die of joy with humor. “Come on, hop in!” You gesture to the passenger side door and he obliges, opening it and climbing in. You let him know you’ve got to grab the keys from Stella, and he nods.

After a few minutes of searching, you find her on the floor of the ladies’ bathroom, with the brunette woman in her lap. “Hey, I’m heading back to my place with Brian,” you tell her, “and no, we’re not _doing it_ or anything. We’re just going to talk shop.”

“About what?”

“Nothing, just concert stuff, how well we did, et cetera,” you lie, and you’re not sure if she notices. But she places a soft kiss on the corner of the girl’s mouth and murmurs something. The girl stands up and helps Stella do so too. “Thanks for taking care of my drummer.” The girl blushes and, to your surprise, shoots a shy look at Stella.

“That’s putting it mildly,” your friend smirks triumphantly. “Though I think it was the other way around. Sorry, Dani, I’m heading out.”

“Aw,” pouts Dani. “Will I see you again?”

“I hope so. I haven’t got anywhere to write my number, but ask George, he’s the bartender. I’m the contact for the band.”

“I’ll call you.” The two share a kiss, not lingering for too long, and Stella tugs you gently towards the door.

“You lucky devil,” you nudge her and she blushes. “If only I had the guts to move that fast with Brian.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t rush that if I were you. He seems too traditional.”

“Yeah…”

“That being said, is it bad that I can hear wedding bells?” she wonders, head tilted curiously as you walk to the van.

“Yes, it is. You should get your ears checked,” you snark, and she giggles. “You got everything?”

“No. Fuck, sorry, I didn’t tear down at all.”

“Go in and ask Pete if we can show up tomorrow and tear down then. He’s closed for a few hours in the morning anyway to clean up. I’ll meet you in my van once you do.”

A few minutes later, Stella runs out of the pub and gets into the passenger side, forcing Brian to scoot much closer to you. You stiffen for a moment when his hand brushes your arm on accident.

“7 am, Pete said,” she reports back.

“Better than last time,” you remark and start up your car.

“(y/n), wait. Where's Curt?"

“He’s in the back,” Brian answers casually. You hear a sleepy groan from between two guitar cases. “He just sort of fell in and started snoring. Claimed he was ‘all partied out.’”

“Party’s over, kids,” mumbles your guitarist.

“He’s gonna hate being back there once we get going,” you murmur.

“At least he’s accounted for.” You hum in agreement. You’re relieved at not being the sole responsible person in the room. Or, rather, the car.

“Did you let Roger know what’s going on?”

“Yeah, he stopped by and asked why I was sitting in here. I told him what we're doing, he’ll probably be up anyways with a bird.” If he means Dani, you know Stella all but foiled that. “You’ve got a phone, right? So I can call him, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod, shifting roughly into first gear. “Stel, I’ll drop you off on the way, after we get Curt home.”

“Sounds good,” she replies as you drive off into the night.


	3. The Waking Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian comes over to talk. You're not sure how much longer you can keep your feelings secret.

You, Stella, and Brian manage to get Curt inside and in bed, though by that point he’s lost his spark and is simply glassy-eyed. You all get back in the van and drive on. Surprisingly, Stella doesn’t bring up anything romance or sex-related as you all chat, though you can tell she’s gone all-in on being your wingman. By the time you pull up to her place, you’re almost certain the others can  _ feel  _ you blushing, even if they can’t see it. You hope Brian hasn’t got his hopes up. 

“Goodnight!” calls Stella and heads to her door, a spring in her step despite the late hour. You and Brian respond in kind before rolling up the window. You wait for Stella to get inside and turn on a light to signal she’s okay before you drive off. 

“Alone at last,” you say to yourself. 

Brian makes a noise between a snort and a laugh. 

Oh yeah. Normally when it’s this late and you say stuff out loud in the van, you don’t have to worry about being judged. Now there’s someone to hear you. You resist the urge to bang your forehead against the wheel and just drive off.

Despite that moment, the silence during that car ride doesn’t intrude or set you on edge. It sits expectantly and waits to be broken.

“I had no idea you played,” you relieve the silence of its duty. You pull into a small alley beside your flat, out of sight enough to not be spotted or ticketed. 

Brian’s shocked surprise is visible, even in the faint off-white beams of a nearby streetlight. “Did I never mention it?”

“No! I knew you knew a lot about music, and that you’d built a guitar, but you built  _ your  _ guitar? As in, the one you played tonight?”

“Yeah. I was sixteen when I did that,” he recalls humbly, as if constructing your own guitar were commonplace.

“How are you so perfect?”

It’s not until he laughs that you realize you said this out loud.

“Oh god, I’m sorry!”

“No, no, don’t be! I just was not expecting that, at  _ all _ . I’m not perfect by any means, though I wish I was.”

“You’re a perfectionist too?”

“It’s one of my many, many flaws.”

“Join the club,” you drone, and he laughs. The two of you look at each other a moment before he speaks.

“I didn’t know  _ you  _ could play. When I saw you get onstage, I almost thought you were fucking around, but as soon as you plugged in and started playing, I was happy to be wrong.”

“Yeah, I play the instrument nobody wants to play because I’m a martyr,” you deadpan, to which he snorts. It’s a miracle that you don’t visibly swoon. “Someone’s got to play it. It might as well be me.” 

You get out of the van, as does he, and lock it. You want nothing more but to go in and pass out on your couch. But you’d be kind of a shit host if you did that, and besides, Brian’s no ordinary guest.

As you lead him towards the door, you qualify whatever he might see inside: “I haven’t picked up in a while, so sorry if it’s a mess.”

“Can’t be any worse than our flat,” he shrugs as you unlock the door. “Looks like twenty people live there, not two.” You can tell he’s trying to make you feel better. An appreciative smile crosses your face as you glance back at him, the door coming open. You’re suddenly very aware of where everything is, from your hands to the doorknob to the fact that he’s leaning against the wall and watching you, obviously tired but not ready to sleep. You’ve gone so red that your face is going to be permanently pink for the rest of your life.

What started as a harmless crush is now staring you down, waiting for you to invite him in.

You’ve got to just be yourself. Stella’d say that. Whatever  _ that _ means.

You try to look as normal as possible, and you instead fumble with the door a bit before you and Brian make it in.

Any hope that he didn’t notice that evaporates when you hear him close the door. “You’re allowed to look at the door when you open it,” he teases. “I’ll be okay if you don’t look at me for one second.”

“You must think I’m desperate then,” you jump to a conclusion, stepping in further. 

“Why would I think that?”

You stop mid-step and face him. He’s still close to the door. 

“Seriously, (y/n), it’s not a bad thing, I’ve been there. I was just teasing. But I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No, you didn’t, it’s okay.” God, he’s being such a sweetheart. “I just...thought you thought I was cooler than I am. I got nervous. I figured you’d think I was desperate because I’m acting weird.”

“Are you?”

“Well, yeah,” you scoff. “When have you ever seen me like this?”

“Do you remember how late we’d stay up, just talking about the stars and life?” he asks you, walking in and standing in front of the couch. “It was later than this, unless I’m remembering wrong.”

“But that was then, this is different,” you insist. Oh, morning you is going to  _ hate _ 3am blabbermouth you, you can  _ feel _ it, but you can’t stop yourself. “I know we’ve only known each other for a year,  _ less _ really. But you’re so  _ you  _ and talented and all that and I’m just…” You can’t find the word, so you just gesture lamely to the side. 

Brian sits down and pats his lap. “Come here.”

“Uh.” Your eyes flicker around him. Is he asking you to—

“Sit with me, just talk to me,” he clarifies. “I’m just offering my lap as a place to rest your head, but only if you want. If you want to just sit and vent, that’s fine too. However long you want to talk, I’ll stay. If I fall asleep, though, it’s not your fault,” he yawns at the thought of sleep.

You take off your shoes. He follows suit, tossing them towards yours, and you pad over to him and sit. Your hands rest nervously in your lap and you look at the wall across the room. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is, right? You  _ know _ him, you’re friends, you have nothing to worry about.

“You alright?”

Shit. You perk up immediately, trying to fight the fog in your brain, reminding you that you can’t forego sleep much longer. “I’m fine,” you tell him. You give him a nervous smile. He watches you, his brow furrowing. You sigh softly and put your head in his lap. “Yeah, I’m not fine.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?” he rests a hand on your arm. Your eyes drift closed.

“Fuck no. I just want to lie here and process. So much fuckin’ happened tonight.”

You feel Brian’s stomach contract as he lets out a laugh. “Understandable,” he concedes.

“Did you want me to talk?”

“Only if you want to.”

Your eyes pop open. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You brace yourself for an about-face, a change in heart that would leave you a sad, sleep-deprived mess on the ground.

“I care about you. Whatever bad things you have to say about yourself, I accept them all. Well, I mean, I’m okay with you being flawed, you’re only human. Bollocks. You know what I mean.” 

A giggle ripples through you. All the anxiety rattling around inside you falls still.

“You think I deserve it?” you ask, already knowing the answer, but you’re not going to drop this line of thinking, not when it’s the happiest you’ve felt in months.

“Of course you do. You’re lovely just as you are.”

You let out a huge breath, remembering that you have to breathe regularly to live. You settle more into his lap. Despite how skinny he is, his lap is surprisingly comfy, and enough to hold your head and a hand, resting on his leg. He settles beneath you, and you can swear you hear him sigh in contentment.

You think you’re dreaming; there’s  _ no _ way you’d be in this position if you were awake. Brian’s not here. He’s being responsible and sleeping in his own bed tonight. If he’s here with you now, at god knows whatever fucking hour, you’re definitely dreaming. You  _ have _ to be.

Long fingers take a small section of your hair and roll it between them. “May I?” he checks in, and you hum in affirmation. He fiddles with various strands, but he’s so gentle it’s like a summer breeze rustling through the trees. Not dreaming yet. 

But soon enough, you’re drifting off, chest rising and falling under his arms, which he’s resting on you as he plays with your hair. The last thing you remember is Brian saying something, too softly for you to hear, and you’re too exhausted to wake yourself up and ask him to say it again.

~

You wake up abruptly to the sound of your phone ringing. With a sleepy groan, you rub one eye and try to get up. For some reason you can’t. You’re so tired that you try it twice more. The phone rings again.

It occurs to you at that point to finally see why you’re stuck. Someone’s arm is pulled. They’re laying right behind you, practically sinking into your couch. You can’t see their face, but you remember very clearly who it is.

You actually did it. You invited Brian over again, after all this time. (It wasn’t  _ that  _ long, but it felt pretty substantial.) All the praise he’d heaped onto you, the way he’d gazed at you all night, and how gently he’d threaded his fingers through your hair...all of that flooded back to you as you watched his chest rise and fall, his dark, wavy hair resting like a pillow over his head. If only you’d stayed awake a little longer, if only you’d talked like he’d suggested. Maybe you could have finally worked through your feelings. Instead, you’re awake now before him, and you’ve never been so deeply in love.

The phone rings a third time, and you huff. All good nights are broken by the sunrise. And whoever the fuck wants to talk to you. You untuck Brian’s arm from your waist and get to your feet. He stirs but doesn’t wake. You dash across the floor, grimacing at your bare feet touching the cold surface, towards the phone.

You take it off its hook in the middle of the fourth ring and put on your most Awake voice possible: “Hello?”

“Morning, (y/n),” comes Curt’s gravelly greeting. He sounds like he got jumped by three men and is hanging onto consciousness by a thread. But in this case, he paid the three guys to beat him up and now he’s regretting it. 

You can’t help but exhale through your nose. “Morning, Curt.”

“Thanks for dropping me off at home.”

“You’re welcome,” you chirp back, though you wanted so badly to lecture him for being unprofessional. Later today, maybe, and with Stella’s help, but not yet.

Your eyes drift over to Brian on the couch as Curt pauses.

“Uh, any reason you called…? You don’t usually call this early,” you remark, trying to pick the conversation up. A brief glance at the clock jogs your memory: you’re supposed to be back at the pub in forty-five minutes to tear down.  _ Let’s hope Curt doesn’t take too long _ , your inner voice snarks.

“Yeah, uh, Stella called me, and she was speaking really urgent and fast, but I’m so foggy right now I couldn’t process a thing she said. Do you have any idea why she’d be calling me at six bloody AM?”

“We all fucked off after the concert and didn’t tear down. If last time was any indication, Pete’s gonna have our heads.”

“He gets mad when people spill their beers on the ground. Even if it’s one little tiny drop, he goes  _ mental _ _!”_ As Curt bitches to you about the bartender, Brian stirs, bringing his head up. Slowly but surely, he swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits up.

“It’s his pub, he’s allowed to not like that. And besides, we promised we’d tear down.” You try to pose as casually as possible, pretending you weren’t just staring at him.

Over the phone, Curt lets out a groan that you’d expect from a six year old who’s been told he’s still got to go to school. You’re not looking at Brian, but you can tell he’s looking at you. You get as involved in your argument with your bandmate as your brain will allow you.

“We  _ always _ tear down, Curt. It’s the right thing to do and Pete appreciates it. We’re lucky he didn’t ban us for this, he just said we should tear down this morning instead. I don’t know how many more times he’s gonna let us do things this way.” 

“Do I need to come too?”

“You’re in the band, of course you do.”

Curt sighs. “If I trip over myself, it’ll be your fault.”

“Okay,” you shrug. “You’re still going, though. Either you show up, or Stella and I tell Pete that you got drunk just to get out of tearing down.” He protests, but you add: “Don’t pretend like you didn’t. That’s not responsible of you. If we’re going to take this shit seriously, you need to shape up.” Brian stretches, making you look over at him for a moment. His shirt pulls at the buttons as his arms pull to either side, and you get a glimpse of the soft skin beneath. You catch yourself staring and shake your head as Curt continues.

“You’re way too serious.”

“Yeah, I know, you told me that last night. You said something about getting that stick out of my ass, which I’m going to forget for your sake.” You put your hand over the receiver and finally turn to Brian, who’s laid down on the couch like he lives there. Not that you’re complaining. “Sorry,” you tell him, “you-know-who’s being a baby.”

“I know how you feel,” he smirks as Curt talks again.

“Sorry, say that again?” you uncover the receiver and ask.

“What time does Stella want to be there?”

“Seven. So...forty minutes. I can pick you up if need be. I’ll definitely be picking Stella up, I can swing by and get you too. Can you be ready in twenty?”

“Yeah I can, please come pick me up,” he mutters without so much as a ‘thank you.’ You let it go, saving your anger for his behavior and not his complete lack of manners. “See you soon.” He hangs up before you can say ‘goodbye.’ You place the phone next to the cradle and rub your temples. Suddenly the thought of joining Queen doesn’t seem too bad.

“Do you need help tearing down?”

You turn to Brian, sitting up. He seems restless but he’s focused on you. You clear your throat, trying to remember how talking works. “That’s nice, Bri,” you refuse politely, “but you really don’t have to.”

“We played too,” he reminds you, going over to his shoes. “We didn’t exactly clean up after ourselves either.” He puts one on as you keep talking.

“Pete expects  _ us _ to do all the clean-up,” you sigh, folding your arms. “Even if it’s not our mess."

“Why is that?” he meets your eyes curiously, pausing as he prepares the other shoe.

“I’ve got no fucking clue. But Stella and I want to leave a good impression, so it’s hard to say ‘no, make the other fuckers do it.’” Brian chuckles and straightens up.

“Well, even if he’s being odd about it, I’d still like to help.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “You do so many nice things for other people. I’d like to do something nice for you.”

“Oh.” It comes out almost like a sigh as you smile. You blink a few times and look away, embarrassed. “I mean, uh, thank you. I appreciate that.” Subtle. “In that case, I’m gonna go freshen up and change, and then we’ll go pick up Stella and Curt. I don’t think I have anything that’d fit you…”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve looked worse,” he waves a hand dismissively. “Do you mind if I wait in here?”

“Not at all! It’d be weird if I made you go wait outside,” you ramble a little before heading upstairs. You hope to God he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong.

Soon enough, you drop by Stella and Curt’s, and the four of you drive on. It’s clear from their faces that they didn’t sleep as well as you did. Come to think of it...Brian looks well rested too. He’s got his elbow against the window and his jaw in his hand. Even with the dark bags under his eyes, he’s still heavensent, his jaw pronounced, his eyes sharp, bright, and intimidating. You’re struck with a desire to reach out and touch his other cheek with the back of your hand, feeling his skin against yours, hearing him sigh like he did last night.

You blush at the thought and bring your eyes back to the road. At least his bandmates aren’t here to tease him. And yours seem to be too exhausted to crack jokes. You revel in those minutes of peace before you finally get to the pub.


End file.
